


it is most sane and sunly

by fruitwhirl



Series: peraltiago tumblr prompts [7]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: But then he wakes up in the morning, on a morning when neither of them works, and Amy deactivates all three of her separate, physical alarms to burrow further into his embrace, he realizes that she has somehow managed to create a cocoon of blankets around her, and even when she’s turned to him, her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder (he doesn’t know how the sweat of his bare skin doesn’t bother her, because it’s somehow warmer now). If he peers down, he can only see her small nose and her big eyes, eyelashes resting on her cheeks, and the rest of her body is obscured by heavy wool. He presses his lips to her temple—quiet, languid—and she sighs something faint and sweet.(jake and amy, and short glimpses into their life together)





	it is most sane and sunly

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of _very_ short drabbles/prompts from my tumblr, so here's where i'm putting them all! have fun! i'll probably add more in a separate section when i have enough, but here's the first installment!
> 
> title from ee cumming's "love is more thicker than forget"

 

> _**autumn** _

When the humid city cools down, and the leaves change from striking jade to crisp orange, most of Brooklyn turns the biting air in their apartments off, but doesn't quite raise the heat, instead opting for cracked windows (depending on the neighborhood) and barely-touched thermostats. Amy, on the other hand, frequently tries to slip the heat on when he isn't watching, attempts to divert his attention before he notices, but not even hot lips pressed hard against his jaw and a warm, open palm spread out against his back underneath his shirt can distract him from the fact that, _holy shit, Ames, why did you turn it up to seventy-eight degrees?_  In return, she just laughs, murmurs “it’s still freezing in here” before he actually does lose focus, and it’s not until later that night, when he drags his mouth along the gooseflesh on her arm that he feels the sweat still on _his_ forehead and remembers that the apartment is nearly eighty degrees.

(Jake’ll quietly slip out and knock it down a few degrees whenever she falls asleep, before grabbing the quilt from the couch to drape over her body to help combat what she considers “icy” temperatures.)

But then he wakes up in the morning, on a morning when neither of them works, and Amy deactivates all three of her separate, physical alarms to burrow further into his embrace, he realizes that she has somehow managed to create a cocoon of blankets around her, and even when she’s turned to him, her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder (he doesn’t know how the sweat of his bare skin doesn’t bother her, because it’s somehow warmer now). If he peers down, he can only see her small nose and her big eyes, eyelashes resting on her cheeks, and the rest of her body is obscured by heavy wool. He presses his lips to her temple—quiet, languid—and she sighs something faint and sweet.

Her eyes still closed, she murmurs, "You turned down the heat again."

Of course, she's right,  her condemnation is a statement rather than a question, a tired but true accusation. He nods, and she groans, but lifts her chin, kisses the corner of his jaw softly. "Good thing you're a goddamn space-heater," she whispers against his skin, electing to rest her head in the crook of his neck as his arm automatically slings across her waist. 

 

* * *

 

> _**when they** **both go back to work, jake and amy take an occasional break to meet each other because they miss each other and want to make out for a bit.** _

Jake has never intentionally tried to ruin his wife’s career.

Really, even when he’d mess with her in the first few years of their partnership—when their comments flashed between biting and flirtatious and he amped up her anxiety totally by accident—his purpose has never been to impede her, professionally.

Frankly, it’s her fault.

Despite her crushing claustrophobia, Amy has always been fond of making out in tucked away corners of work: between their hurried and apparently _filmed_ evidence lock-up hook-ups (before Dozerman’s death, of course) and their clandestine rendezvous in empty hallways and unused janitorial closets. Even when she makes sergeant, she doesn’t seem deterred from dragging Jake into a dark corner during one of her breaks and kissing him breathless.

That said, he _does_ perhaps venture down to her floor more than he absolutely _needs_ to. One can only use the “the fourth floor’s copier is broken, gotta use yours” so many times before someone catches on, and Amy’s beat cops make a point of glaring at him when they see him meandering between their desks, except for the smiling Officer Jennings, a skinny kid with an eager-to-please expression that reminds him too much of Amy that he often makes it a point to avoid the southwest corner.

(Once, Jake mentions the cop’s likeness to his wife when she’s got him pressed against a shelve holding toilet paper rolls, and Amy just laughs, nips at his jaw and whispers into his skin about the office assistant who reminds her eerily of Gina.)

However, it can really be _really_ inconvenient. Right now, for example, Amy’s got her legs wrapped around his waist because her lack of heels is really frustrating to her, and his mouth is at her clavicle and her hair’s falling out of her ponytail. Not only did they have to go to the first floor to find an empty space, but they also ran into Officer Jennings who tried to ask Amy a myriad of questions that she deftly ignored (though promised she’d come back to, leaving a very confused cop in her wake). “You know, one of these days, you’ll have your own office as captain and we won’t have to make out in supply closets like two horny teens anymore. We could totally do it on your couch.”

“Not all offices come with a couch, Jake.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t veto having sex in your future office while your detective squad was right outside.”

“Never mind, I am definitely vetoing it.”

“When we have a bunch of munchkins at home and haven’t had two seconds of privacy in three years, you’re definitely going to be changing your tune.”

He can’t see, but he can practically _feel_ her rolling her eyes.

Of course, they don’t always meet up _just_ to make out. Often, they’ll just find a private space, so that they can catch each other up on their day, because goddamn do they miss sitting right across each other. For the past eight years, Jake was always able to look up when he was combing through a case file and see Amy, with her nose all scrunched up and her brow furrowed in concentration, and even before they were dating, he was able to check in with her, get a second opinion. It’s just harder now that they’re on separate floors (not that he’s sad about it, because his wife is being a badass sergeant and she deserves the entire world, including the promotion that led her to move her desk away from his).

(And when she worries her lip, holding out a little white stick with two thin blue lines on it, they frequently just use their short, shared time together to just _talk,_ and she’ll lean her cheek against his shoulder while they chat, and his hand always drifts to her soft, growing belly while he presses light kisses into her hair.)

(Jake is pretty sure that their daughter was conceived in supply closet J.)

 

* * *

  

> _**"i missed you"**  _

“I missed you.”

The airport is loud, cluttered with pedestrian traffic and the repetitive rumbles of jets touching down and taking off, but ultimately, it all becomes white noise to Jake as he sits on the little bench outside of arrivals. Really, he’s focused on the clock, on the tap of his foot against the dirty linoleum, and he glances every so often to his phone, waiting for any update at all.

(He knows that the moment the plane lands Amy will text him, but not until she’s out of the metal cage because she is very specific about following every rule, including the one where she turns off her cell phone for “airplane mode.” One time, he tried to argue that the rule was a farce, and used a pretty goddamn convincing—and _scientific—_ episode of _Mythbusters_ but she just hummed, crossing her arms across her chest and insisting that rules are made for a reason, and that reason is to be followed.)

Not that he’s keeping track, but it’s been approximately four days and seven and a half hours since he’s seen his wife, which is the longest he’s gone without waking up to her nose in his chest and dark, dark hair in his mouth since he holed up in that safe house with the captain’s husband, and he’s somehow missed her in the six-thousand, one-hundred and eighty minutes than he’s ever thought possible. And the chill of the airport makes every passing second feel like a century.

Of course, he’s ridiculously happy for her; the law enforcement conference she was attending in Georgia (which he had to miss because of a time-sensitive identity theft case that went on _much_ longer than anticipated) provided a shit ton of information about “rising through the ranks” that she was ridiculously excited about, that she spent all of last night talking to him about through Facetime, her smile so bright, so radiant that he felt blinded even through his little iPhone screen.

“Jake!”

Somehow he had zoned out, but he lifts his head to see a flash of dark hair and that same wide grin running towards him, her suitcase trailing behind her, catching on the cracks of the floor. And he pushes himself off of the bench that has definitely left some sort of odd pattern on his ass, but he doesn’t care, rushing forward to where she is, where she drops her bag on the floor and wrapping her arms around his neck while his snake around her waist, lifting her up up up until her feet leave the ground. He can feel her toothy smile against the skin of his collarbone, and he whispers, “I missed you, _so much_ ” into the shell of her ear.

When Jake finally sets her down, her cheeks are flushed and she just barely gets out an “I missed you so much, too” before he leans forward to kiss her softly, and her hands drift to cup his face gently, and when he pulls away, her eyes are momentarily closed, her eyelashes fluttering open.

And then his palms travel down to her stomach, to her barely round belly covered only by the thin cotton of her blouse. “How is our little John McClane doing?”

“Jake, I told you, the baby’s going to be a girl.” Amy’s trying to be serious, but the corners of her lips are upturned despite herself.

“You’re gonna lose that bet, but fine. How’s _Joanna_ McClane doing?”

Amy rests her head against his chest, her frame wracked with quiet laughter. “I was the only child that my parents planned, and I just so happened to also be the only girl. Santiago’s _plan_ their girls, and the amount of conception binders on our shelves proves that this baby is gonna be a girl.”

“I can’t wait to win this bet.”

 

* * *

 

> _**the day after "i do"** _

Jake wakes to an empty bed, to a black space still warm.

It doesn’t surprise him really, because he’s used to this—Amy has always risen before him, her alarms going off an hour before he could even _think_ about getting up. But, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little disappointed, somewhere deep in his chest, because he feels the weight of metal on the fourth finger of his left hand and he thought that she would at least _sleep in_ for once.

And then he hears crackling, the sound of oil popping, and he recognizes the smell of eggs and it takes him a moment to make the connection and—oh _shit,_ she’s trying to cook.

In one swift, fluid motion (alright, maybe it was more stumbling and stilted), Jake pulls on his boxers and takes just a moment to make the bed, because even though his _wife—_ God, he just can’t stop himself from saying it—may be burning down their kitchen this very moment, but if the corners of their duvet are not pulled taut and their comforter isn’t flat and smooth, she might just murder him.

(Plus, he always loves the soft, surprised smile that slips onto her face when she enters their bedroom again, expecting to see a big, rumpled mess and is instead met with something much neater.)

But once he finishes, he steels himself, padding through the hallway, through the dining room, then to the kitchen, only to see his worst fear: Amy at the stovetop, her back to him as she pokes at something with a spatula. And she’s clad only in socks and one of Terry’s old t-shirts that they both steal from him time to time, and the hem skims her mid-thigh, and her hair is down, resting in loose waves just above her collarbone. When he gets closer, he realizes that she doesn’t sense his presence, distracted by her task because she continues to hum under her breath, but when he steps up behind her, snakes his arms around her waist, she doesn’t jump, just whispers a quiet greeting as he kisses her shoulder.

He asks her, with his lips against the skin right behind her ear, what she’s doing, and she turns to him, mumbles something about Charles teaching her, and they both shudder involuntarily when she mentions how their friend described it as a “baby-making breakfast.” At Jake’s quirked brow and slight smirk, she rolls her eyes, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his jaw, explaining that it was the only thing he taught her how to make.

(Much to their surprise, and to Charles’ utter joy, the meal is aptly named, as they find out for themselves just a few short months later.)

Grinning, she raises her hand to cup his cheek, her eyes as soft as they were last night (and every other day they’ve spent together, every other morning he wakes up to her hair tickling his nose and she’s  already stirring with the sunlight unevenly streaming through their blinds, every other time he travels down to her floor and steals her away from her beat cops for just a second) and he feels the cool metal against his skin. Then he can’t help but kiss her, feeling her smile against his lips, his hands settling on her hips and her fingers finding purchase in his cropped hair.

It’s then that they hear a loud _pop_ and Amy pulls away, exclaiming something about French toast and _getting distracted by my husband_ and he chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to her hairline and moving to sit on the counter beside her as she returns to the pan with bread and egg in it.

(Somehow, the food isn’t just edible but _good,_ and he kisses her temple softly as he gets up to wash the dishes, and she sighs something content in response when his lips leave her skin.)

 

* * *

 

> _**jake and amy, and rom-coms** _

Of all people, Jake doesn’t know why he assumed that Amy would love romantic comedies. Maybe he thought that she was a true romantic under all of those layers of pantsuits, under all of the glares she sent his way over the first few years of their partnership, under all of her groans about failed dates she’d been on. 

Nonetheless, he assumed she’d love  _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_ , because it’s a staple in the genre that he’s watched with Gina in her tiny little apartment more times than he can count. 

“Did they seriously fall in love over the course of a three minute musical montage?” His head is in her lap, cheek resting against the soft cotton of her sweatpants. Throughout the movie, her fingers have been slowly carding through his hair, pausing every so often to gesticulate wildly as she points out an idiotic line or scene. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t egg it on, though. As much as he loves the movie, Jake has to suppress a smile at her getting so riled up over Matthew McConaughey. 

“They were made for each other, Ames!” 

He shifts so that he’s looking up at her now instead of the television, and she’s frowning in a way that should be scary but is ultimately adorable, with the corners of her lips turned down and her eyebrows scrunched together. And her scathing gaze is not on him, but on Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson’s characters riding bicycles together and laughing on the riverside. Idly, he wonders if she’s trying to burn the 2003 film down with just her eyes. 

“God, it’s almost as bad as  _Leap Year_.” 

“Don’t you dare insult Amy Adams.” 

“I’m not insulting Amy Adams—I loved  _Arrival_ and it’s ridiculous that she’s never won an Oscar.” She huffs, her breath blowing loose wisps of hair out of her face. At some point between the Chinese takeout scattered on the coffee table and Kate Hudson taking on the article for her magazine, her hair slipped out of her bun. “I just, no one falls in love with someone in three months, much less one week or ten days.” 

“Well, I was in love with you the moment we met.” He’s turned his head back to Matthew McConaughey, but he can feel the roll of her eyes. 

“Jake, we couldn’t stand being in the same room for the first two months of me being at the precinct.” 

Slowly, he props himself up on his elbows, and presses his lips to the edge of her jaw, light. Despite her best efforts, Amy can’t help but grin something small, her eyes softening. He kisses the space just below her ear when he smirks, “I adored you from the second I saw those blunt little bangs.” 

Groaning, her head falls forward, landing to rest in the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and he rests his cheek on the top of her head and soon enough they’ve rearranged themselves so that she’s tucked into his side on their little brown couch with its cute little doilies, yelling at the television when Matthew McConaughey’s boss strolls up to him to say that there’s not “a diamond in the room that sparkles like a woman in love.” 

And more than anything, as the woman he loves kicks off a rather spectacular diatribe about the convoluted plots of romantic comedies, Jake feels content, pressing his lips to her hair and relishing in the soft lemon of her shampoo. 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up @ dmigod on the tumble down


End file.
